The Way It Tears Me Up Inside
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Nights like this are the worst. SickSam&BigBrotherDean (Warriors 'verse)


**The Way It Tears Me Up Inside**

_Take a breath  
I pull myself together  
Just another step till I reach the door  
You'll never know the way it tears me up inside to see you  
I wish that I could tell you something  
To take it all away_

_**"Save You" Simple Plan**_

XXX

Nights like this are the worst.

Sometimes, when the nausea won't let Sam sleep, they sit on the bathroom floor with pillows and blankets and play cards or tell jokes or just talk about whatever it is Sam wants to talk about, and occasionally Sam leans over the toilet to spit up the tiny sips of water Dean insists on before sighing and picking up his cards.

And other times, it's like this; Sam draped over the toilet while Dean helps hold him up and murmurs reassurances in his ear and the retching just doesn't stop. Sam seems so small in moments like this, breakable, this scrawny little bald kid in Dean's arms, sweating and shaking, who won't, can't, stop crying because he's so fucking sick, and Dean rubs his back and wipes his face with damp wash cloths and wishes that their rolls were reversed.

"You want a drink?" Dean asks when the latest bout of heaving seems to have subsided for the moment, and Sam rests his forehead against the rim of the toilet, sucking in slow, quivering breaths.

"Nuh-uh," he moans.

"It might make you feel better," Dean suggests, "Something to throw up other than stomach acid. I could get Dad to make you some ginger tea."

Sam mumbles something unintelligible that Dean takes as a no. He'll ask again in a while, and get Sam to drink something no matter what the answer. He can't let the kid get dehydrated.

Yawning, he rubs a hand over his head, eyes scratchy from being open long past the time he should have gone to sleep. He still has the Mohawk, though he offered to shave it when Sam's got too thin and ragged to be worth keeping. Sam said no, that one of them should keep the warrior style, or that Dean could just grow all his hair back if he wants. He doesn't want, not until Sam can grow his hair back too, even if that's months or years away.

"'m so tired," Sam sighs, so Dean gently pulls him away from the toilet and lets him rest against his chest. He wraps his arms around him, willing his own healthy cells to somehow merge into Sam. He can feel Sam's ribs through the thin fabric of their t-shirts.

"You need to eat more," he says absently, smoothing the damp cloth over Sam's forehead. Sam sighs and leans into his touch, even though he can barely hold himself up. "You ready to go to bed?"

"Nuh," Sam manages, and then he's gagging again, his whole thin body shaking with the strain. Dean leans him forward so he can choke up saliva and bile into the toilet bowl.

"Easy, kid, easy," Dean soothes, helplessly, "Deep breaths."

"...trying..." Sam replies. His voice is wrecked, scratchy and strained. His throat is probably burnt raw by now, and it's nights like this that Dean's traitorous mind whispers horrible things to him, things like _Sam's dying_. Things like _You can't fix this_. It's nights like this that Dean prays to anyone and anything listening; _Please don't take my brother_.

Sam falls back against him, seems to sort of melt into his lap, and Dean holds him tight again, wipes his face again, because he will do this as many times as he has to and he doesn't mind, though when Sam's feeling a bit better he'll think that Dean does. He'll pull away and try to 'buck up', like he doesn't understand that Dean doesn't _want_ to be anywhere but by his side and he doesn't give a damn if that means being puked on or staying up the whole damn night. This is where he needs to be. Tonight, however, Cancer and Chemo don't give a crap about pride or independence and neither does Sam so Dean lets him cling and cry for as long as he needs to, murmuring comforting nonsense under his breath.

`5\

The door creaks a little and Dad pokes his head in, slow and unsure. His eyes sweep anxiously over his two sons on the floor.

"How's he doing?" he asks quietly, although it's pretty obvious.

Dean shakes his head. "It's bad tonight."

Sam whimpers in what might be agreement or maybe a fresh surge of nausea and lurches for the toilet yet again, paper-thin skin on his knuckles turning white as he clutches the bowl, retching fruitlessly.

Dad scratches at his beard, a gesture that could be thoughtful but is probably more nervous. He smells like cigarettes and fear. He hovers in the doorway uncertainly.

"Can I get anything?" he asks, kind of hopefully.

Sam sucks in a shaky breath, pushing himself up a little to prop his elbow on the rim of the toilet and rests his forehead against his hand. He swipes his other hand over his eyes, like he doesn't want Dad to see him crying.

"Um... blanket?" he says as if he's guessing, and Dad looks relieved.

"Coming right up."

The door shuts silently, sealing in the acidic smell of vomit, and Dean rubs his knuckles lightly up and down Sam's back.

"That was nice of you," he says.

"What?" Sam asks innocently.

"Giving Dad something to do," Dean says knowingly. "You already have a blanket in here and you said you didn't want it."

Sam quirks a small, quick smile before groaning and spitting into the toilet. "I feel mean, for not letting him in here."

"You shouldn't," Dean says immediately. "If it was Dad, he wouldn't want an audience sitting around watching him either. He understands.

Sam shrugs a little, brushing him off. Jesus, _this kid_, in here puking his guts up for hours on end and he's thinking about what he can do to make Dad feel better.

"You're amazing, you know that?"

Sam heaves again, just once. "Don't feel amazing," he moans.

"Well you are, so don't forget it."

Sam rewards him with another one of those quick, tiny smiles. "'kay."

Dad reappears in the doorway and Sam graciously lets him drape the blanket over his shoulders, even though it's going to take about two minutes before he starts overheating, which will probably make him feel worse.

"Thanks," Sam croaks out anyway.

Dad stands there for a moment. One hand flutters towards Sam like he wants to offer some support but isn't sure how, before he clears his throat a little awkwardly.

"Well, I know you boys have things covered in here, I'll just..." he trails off uncertainly and Dean is sure that all he'll be doing outside of the bathroom is thinking about what's happening inside the bathroom, but he doesn't try to stay. "Just yell if you need anything. Feel better, Sammy."

Feel better. Dean wishes that for once, Dad would give Sam an order he could follow.

**END**


End file.
